


you came and i was longing for you

by hihoplastic



Series: The Worst Witch Tumblr Prompts [16]
Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:07:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24806686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: Pippa glowers at the candle in front of her, resists, but barely, the urge to throw it across the room. She’s been at this an hour now, a simple, easy lighting spell, andnothing. It’s not totally uncommon, or dire—it’s happened to her before, and the nurse on duty had simply tutted at her and reminded her that stress-induced blips in magic are nothing to worry about, but that she should take better care of herself, and find ways to relax.
Relationships: Hardbroom/Pentangle (Worst Witch)
Series: The Worst Witch Tumblr Prompts [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1014084
Comments: 13
Kudos: 89





	you came and i was longing for you

**Author's Note:**

> \- title from Sappho  
> \- for @missgrantscheerleader, who requested hicsqueak + angst/comfort. This wound up being slightly less angst and slightly more fluff, but I hope you enjoy it!  
> 

Pippa glowers at the candle in front of her, resists, but barely, the urge to throw it across the room. She’s been at this an hour now, a simple, easy lighting spell, and _nothing._ It’s not totally uncommon, or dire—it’s happened to her before, and the nurse on duty had simply tutted at her and reminded her that stress-induced blips in magic are nothing to worry about, but that she should take better care of herself, and find ways to relax. 

_Relax,_ Pippa thinks with a snort. She doesn’t have time to relax, not with the impending bi-annual review coming up, or with her students’ graduation in a few weeks, or with prepping for summer sessions. She has too much on her plate to _relax,_ and this is the worst possible time of year for her magic to go on the fritz, “a typical reaction” or not. 

But it’s been a long time—the last bout of magical anxiety she had was in college, during finals week—and her usual methods (a bubble bath, meditation, a long walk) aren’t helping. It’s been three days, and she _needs_ her magic back before the council arrives to inspect her academy. 

She stares at the candle again and takes a deep breath, centers her shoulders, and tries again. 

Nothing happens, and she growls at the wick, stubbornly unlit. She knows she won’t get anywhere by trying to force it, but the longer it takes her to recover her magic, the more frustrated she becomes. 

“Take your time, Miss Pentangle,” the nurse had advised. “Your magic will return when you need it, don’t fret.” 

She looks at the stack of paperwork next to the candle, documents that need her signature, and resigns herself to doing it all by hand. It’ll take hours, if not longer, to get through everything that needs to be done—the shelves in the potions lab need to be restocked, the greenhouse needs a clean, her office needs organization and all the diplomas need to be written out and stamped. 

Groaning, she pulls the stack closer to her and starts to read, forgetting every so often that her magic doesn’t work, despite the pen in her hand. She doesn’t know how long she sits there, hand cramping and glaring at the slowly, far too slowly dwindling documents, but by the time there’s a soft knock on her bedroom door, the sun has set and the light has faded and she realizes she’s been sitting in near darkness, only the light from the lamp across the room to see by. 

She stands, and waves her hand to turn on more lights. It doesn’t work, and she huffs, crossing the room to smack her hand against the light switch before she pulls open the door, affixing a strained but hopefully pleasant smile on her face. 

She expects her deputy with an update on preparations, the nurse, or even a student. 

Instead, it’s Hecate, standing stiffly in her doorway, holding a basket in one hand, her other fist lightly curled around her broom. 

Pippa blinks, not entirely sure she isn’t imaging things. Hecate rarely visits her—even after they spoke, even after Hecate explained that it wasn’t because she didn’t want to, but because she _couldn’t_ —years and years and years of confinement keeping her bound to Cackle’s—her transference across short distances is impeccable, but her flying is weak and long-distance transference is nearly impossible for her, still. She’s been trying, Pippa knows—they’ve met up in the closest town to Cackle’s a few times, but Hecate always needs help getting back, and Pippa knows she hates it, hates being at someone else’s mercy, even if it is Pippa. 

Even after they talked—long, long hours spent in Hecate’s rooms, deep into the night, talking, finally, about what happened between them. What happened to Joy, to Hecate—why she left and abandoned Pippa in the first place, to protect her. To save her from a life bound to her the way she was bound to Cackle’s. 

Hecate had barely moved and Pippa had cried and slowly, after weeks and months of dancing around each other, Pippa hadn’t been able to stay silent. Hadn’t been able to keep her feelings for Hecate—the love she’s carried for her since they were teenagers—quiet any longer. 

To her disbelief, Hecate returned those feelings. Returned all the love she carried for her and then some, and it’s been six months and Pippa finally knows what it’s like to hold her, to kiss her, to run her hands over her cold skin under the blankets. 

“Your deputy mirrored me a few hours ago,” Hecate says a bit stiffly, before Pippa can ask. “He said you could… ‘use a hug, or something.’” Her nose twitches at the phrasing. “Is everything alright?” 

Pippa opens the door, lets her in, closes it behind them and gestures to her sofa. “I’m fine, darling,” she says, unable to stop the endearment; there’s always a moment when she forgets the doesn’t have to anymore, and smiles at Hecate’s slight blush. “Just a bit stressed. My magic has been a bit… faulty.” 

Hecate sets the basket down on the coffee table and nods. “I suspected.” 

“Oh?” 

“Your deputy is about as subtle as a bat in a lab.” 

Pippa chuckles. “He means well.” 

“Indeed.” Hecate tilts her head. “Is there a reason you didn’t tell me?” 

She sounds unsure, a bit nervous, and Pippa smiles at her gently. “I couldn’t mirror myself, and a letter would have taken too long to reach you. And, I know you’re dealing with end of term as well—I didn’t want to bother you.” 

Hecate narrows her eyes at that. “It’s not a bother,” she says, a bit curtly, but Pippa knows her tone isn’t directed at her. Rather, it makes her heart swell that Hecate seems equally invested in their relationship, despite her early hesitation. Pippa can’t really blame her, with everything she’s been through, but it’s nice, wonderful, even, to have the reassurance. 

The thought occurs rather abruptly, and she frowns at Hecate’s broom, leaning against the arm of the sofa. “Did you fly here?” 

“No, I walked,” Hecate says dryly. 

Pippa glares at her briefly. “You shouldn’t put so much strain on your magic,” she scolds. “Long distances—”

“I’m fine, Pippa,” Hecate says. “I’ve been practicing.” 

“Practicing?” 

She shrugs one shoulder delicately. “Long flights around the grounds at night.”

“What for?” 

Hecate arches an eyebrow, and Pippa blinks. “Oh,” she says, realizes, it’s in part so that Hecate could come to her. Could visit, whenever. The thought makes her heart pinch, the care in the action, the fact that Hecate is here, now, exactly when she needs her. 

“That wasn’t necessary,” she says, almost an idle thought. _Not necessary for me._ Hecate looks at her, like she knows what Pippa’s thinking, her expression nearly unreadable, until she says, 

“You would do the same for me, would you not?”  
“Of course I would.” 

“Then I consider it highly necessary.” 

Before she can respond, Hecate turns back to the basket and unloads a thin cardboard box, a linen bag tied in ribbon, and two bottles of potions, one pink and one a sea foam blue. 

“What’s all this?” 

“Potions, in a worst case scenario to boost your magic.” Hecate hands her the bag. “Passionflower and lemon,” she says, as Pippa opens it, the smell sweet and lovely. “It will help you sleep.” 

Pippa smiles, and fetches the electric tea kettle she keeps in her cupboard just in case. Hecate gives it a bit of a dirty look, but doesn’t complain, and Pippa rolls her eyes. 

“It won’t bite.” 

“You don’t know that,” Hecate grumbles, but it’s good natured, and she pauses slightly to smirk at Pippa as she lays out the other items on a delicate plate. 

“Are those donuts?” 

”Miss Tapioca made them. I can’t attest to their taste, but they’re infused with lavender, basil, and valerian—recent studies have shown marked efficacy in the combination’s treatment of magic-delay disorders.” 

Pippa looks at the offerings, the delicate icing. “And Miss Tapioca knows my favorite color is pink?” 

Hecate nearly snorts. “Everyone knows your favorite color is pink.” 

“Does she know you used to give me your extra desserts at dinner, too?” 

“Hardly. I merely requested the most cloyingly sweet concoction she could create.” 

Pippa grins, and kisses her cheek. “You know me so well.” 

Hecate looks bemused. “Sit,” she says. “I’ll fetch the tea.” 

Pippa nods, and does as she says, relaxing back into her sofa, snatching a donut from the pile. She feels abruptly less stressed, less wrung-out. A bit, girlishly giddy at the notion of Hecate—stern, temperamental Hecate—taking care of her. It makes her feel warm and bright and joyful, and she smiles at Hecate when she returns with two steaming mugs. 

“Couldn’t even wait for your tea,” Hecate sniffs, but Pippa can tell by the set of her shoulders and the slight upturn of her lips that she isn’t actually upset; rather, she seems quietly delighted, and Pippa marvels at that—how happy it seems to make her to make Pippa happy. 

She feels very much the same, and instead of letting Hecate take her usual chair, she catches her wrist and tugs her gently down onto the sofa next to her, so she can curl up against her side. 

Hecate stiffens for a moment, then relaxes, sips her tea and tells Pippa a bit about Cackle’s, how the end of term is going. They talk about Pippa’s upcoming review, and her nerves, and Hecate is reassuring—matter of fact, of course, and no-nonsense—but her reminders that Pippa has built this school from the ground up, has received countless awards for her efforts, has never had a problem with anyone on the council save the Great Wizard himself, who is, in Hecate’s words, “less an institution and more a useless honorific,” are a balm Pippa hadn’t realized she’d needed. 

Pippa laughs at that, a bit gleeful to hear Hecate speak so frankly about the esteemed wizard. “I’ve always thought he was an old goat,” she agrees, and Hecate hums in agreement, carefully running her fingers through Pippa’s hair. 

“Men are rarely worthy of their accolades.” 

“To be fair, you’re a bit biased, darling—the man you have the most exposure to was a frog for most of his life.” 

“And he’s one of the better ones.” 

Pippa snorts, but leans into Hecate’s touch, forgetting, for a moment, all the things that have been troubling her, content to simply exist in the same space as the woman she loves, calmed by the tea and sweets and Hecate’s low voice. 

“You have nothing to worry about, Pipsqueak,” Hecate says finally. “Your school routinely outperforms most other institutions, and your students are happy and well cared for. The Great Wizard’s distaste for modern magic will not be enough to sway the council in a negative decision, it never has been.”

Pippa sighs, curling tighter into Hecate’s shoulder. “I know,” she admits. “But it’s still...it’s just… difficult. Having to prove myself again and again, simply because our approach to magic is different.” 

“I understand,” Hecate says softly, pauses for a long moment, then says, “At least you have not turned his Greatness into a balloon.” 

Pippa laughs, startled, and sits up to see Hecate’s face, certain she’s joking—but she has a strange, somewhat embarrassed look on her face, and she gasps. 

“A balloon?” 

Hecate nods. “When Agatha took over the school a few years back.” She looks horribly chagrined. “We put him in a cupboard.” 

Pippa’s eyes widen. “You didn’t. Tell me everything.” 

Hecate rolls her eyes, but dutifully recounts one of Agatha’s many attempts at a take-over, and her own involvement in the Great Wizard’s predicament, and Pippa can’t help giggling at the image of Helibore as a blue balloon with a sharpie smiley face. 

“Was he terribly upset?” 

“More embarrassed, I think, that he was defeated by three women. He was… surprisingly forgiving.” 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Pippa says. “You had no choice.” 

Hecate shakes her head. “There’s always a choice. I simply made the one I thought was right.” 

Pippa smiles softly, reaching up to brush her fingers over Hecate’s cheek. “You always do,” she murmurs. 

“As do you. Your magic will return, and the council will vote in your favor, and all will be well.” 

Pippa cranes her neck and kisses Hecate briefly, sweetly. “It’s already well,” she says, “Now that you’re here.” 

Hecate flushes, as she always does when Pippa pays her a compliment of any kind, and she takes Hecate’s hand, curls back into her side, sighs contentedly when Hecate returns to brushing her fingers through Pippa’s hair. 

She falls asleep that way not too long after, wakes up in the middle of the night with a crick in her neck, Hecate half-asleep next to her. Pippa wrangles them both up and into pajamas and into her bed which is far more comfortable. She presses her body against Hecate’s, wraps her arms around her, feels Hecate brush a kiss across her temple before she drifts off, and Pippa is certain she’s never felt more content, more at peace. 

Without thinking, she waves her hand, and turns out the lights.


End file.
